


oh sayang

by andnowforyaya



Series: We Collected Swells [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Gen, Hawaii, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 12:59:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andnowforyaya/pseuds/andnowforyaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles used to smell like the forest, crisp and spicy, a sharp note of smoke running through his center like the warning flare of a gun, and vanilla. Now he smells like wet sand, and beached shells, and coffee and paper and ink, and the dew at sunrise. </p><p>Or, the one where Sterek are in domestic bliss in Hawaii.</p>
            </blockquote>





	oh sayang

Stiles used to smell like the forest, crisp and spicy, a sharp note of smoke running through his center like the warning flare of a gun, and vanilla. Now he smells like wet sand, and beached shells, and coffee and paper and ink, and the dew at sunrise. His skin always burns first before it freckles, and Derek skims the pads of his fingers over the curve of Stiles' ear, unobtrusively leeching the angry heat lingering there. Stiles shivers.

The papers in his lap tremble as he leans into Derek's touch, which gradually migrates to his jawline. They have a little bungalow by the sand, and you can see the ocean stretching out to infinity if you sit on the tiny, creaking porch. When the breeze sweeps through the area the chimes hanging from the eaves gently ring. Stiles has dragged one of the chairs from their kitchen out onto the porch, along with what looks like all of their pillows, and he sits in the nest he’s created with the papers in his lap and the cap of a red pen between his teeth.

“Stop working,” Derek murmurs as Stiles’ cheeks nuzzles into the palm of his hand. “Come inside.”

“I’ve played fetch with you all weekend,” Stiles protests weakly, grin betraying him. “Leave me my Sunday afternoons to grade horribly written English papers.”

Derek snatches the pen out of Stiles’ hand and scribbles a B- on the top paper in his untidy scrawl, and Stiles squawks. “He wasn’t going to get an A,” Derek tells him, raising an eyebrow when Stiles looks up him with some combination of fondness and indignity. “And term isn’t even over until Thursday, you know.”

“Yes, Derek, I am well aware of my own school’s calendar.” Stiles rolls his eyes. Derek presses his thumb into the pulse fluttering just under the skin of Stiles’ neck, and he hums. “All right, all right,” he gives. “Don’t get angry when I get fired for negligence.”

Stiles stands in one swift movement, papers gathered in one arm, and Derek breathes in the lingering perfume of cinnamon and hazelnut and caramel from their lazy breakfast this morning. "You're not going to get fired," he assures Stiles, guiding them both back inside. The door creaks on its hinges. The whole house creaks, sometimes, swaying when the ocean pulls. "You're the only mainlander who they can stand. God knows why."

"Whom," Stiles corrects automatically, allowing himself to be guided by Derek's palm. "And they like you, too, mostly. You big _haole._ "

Derek grins, self-deprecating. He's lost his feral ferocity since moving. Stiles and the waves have softened his edges.

He pulls the papers from Stiles' hands as soon as they've taken the few steps into their living area, and drops them onto the first available flat surface. They live modestly, their bungalow more like a single room with walls and a roof, their kitchen bleeding into their living room into their bedroom, which is more like an oversized closet that fits just a king-sized mattress, snug against the walls. Nine months out of the year they can leave all their windows open with mosquito netting where the glass should be, and invite the ocean into their home.

Stiles loves it. Loves that he can wake up and take no more than ten steps before his toes hit sand, loves breakfast in bed and how jealous his dad and Scott sound when they Skype. Derek loves the isolation. When the moon demands, Stiles will drive them to the cliffs on the North Shore, and everything is good.

Even after all this time, Derek will wake in the middle of the night, moon beaming through the mosquito netting and Stiles sleep-warm by his side, and he will think he is dreaming. There is no way he deserves this, and he loves their little sanctuary even more for this belief, terrified at how easily it could disappear.

"You pull me from my work and then completely blank on me." Stiles voice brings him back to the present, blinking awareness back into his features. "Come on, sourwolf. Where'd you go off to?" Stiles walks them past the living area, past their single worn couch with a throw over the back, past their television, past the wall with pictures of home - except Beacon Hills is hardly home anymore - tacked up with tape or string or glue. There are Scott and Allison's smiling anniversary photos. There is Lydia behind the podium at their graduation, mouth open in the middle of her valedictorian speech. There are Erica and Boyd and Isaac on a road-trip to the East coast.

He nudges gently until the back of Derek's knees hit the mattress, and then a gentle shove has Derek sprawled on the bed.

Stiles follows the line of Derek's body, practiced, crawls up and over until he's heavy between Derek's legs, stomachs pressed flat against each other, hot behind the thin materials of their t-shirts. Stiles rests his chin on top of his fingers over Derek's chest, and smiles. "I know this is what you meant by 'inside,' Derek. If you keep making me choose between work and sex, we're going to have to reconsider our living expenses soon." His smile curls into a smirk, and Derek returns it.

Outside, the waves break.

Stiles could surge against him, wet and frenetic like the rainy season; or Stiles could swell gently, sweetly, like the sun breaking the horizon. Derek usually lets him choose, because there are a lot of other choices that he's taken away from him.

He closes the distance between them, eyes flicking down to Derek's lips and back up again in a way that makes his heart jump, no matter how many times they've done this. The first press is dry and chaste as Stiles pulls himself up, dragging against Derek's body. He pulls away, licks his lips, and his breath is hot against Derek's jaw.

The second is leisurely, a greeting. Derek's eyes flicker closed and Stiles hums against his lips, vibrations making his toes curl. He places his hands on Stiles' slim hips, and then he pulls, Stiles reacting just as he thought he would, gasping at the sudden pressure, and Derek slips his tongue past the seam of Stiles' lips. He feels his canines elongating like pinpricks.

They kiss open-mouthed until Derek is straining, until the breaths they are sharing are synchronized, until Stiles is muttering something low and secret: " _This is what I love_." But Derek's ears catch the words, and then he is rising, Stiles shifting to fit himself in Derek's lap, straddling him, warm on the tops of his thighs. They break long enough for Derek to pull Stiles' shirt over his head, heart skipping a beat when the shirt snags free and Stiles is left with a grin and color on his cheeks, hair like its been windswept. He shrugs his own shirt off quickly. He likes that Stiles has grown out his hair a little. Something more to hold onto.

Derek noses along Stiles' jaw, licking, and the younger man starts to squirm when he pushes his face into Stiles' neck, licking a long swipe along the side and then pressing his teeth against the tender skin there. It yields and Stiles exhales. " _God._ "

Derek chuckles, feels fingers tracing up over his shoulders and then into his coarse black hair, and Stiles grips and pulls and Derek sucks at the juncture of Stiles' neck and shoulder. Stiles never quiets; he makes the most wonderful noises. And he is demanding.

He tugs on Derek's hair until Derek follows, but it is only to bring his lips up to his own again, before Stiles is the one sinking low and lower, swirling his tongue over Derek's left nipple, grazing with his teeth until it pebbles, and then even lower, leaving wet kisses as he goes, until he's reached the elastic of Derek's board shorts. He traces one long finger over the fabric, and Derek shudders, leans back on his hands. "No," Stiles says, so that Derek opens his eyes - he didn't realize he had closed them. Stiles' eyes are honey-gold in the sun. He says, "I want your hands in my hair," and it nearly undoes him.

Carefully, carefully, Stiles pulls the elastic down, and Derek runs his fingers through Stiles' hair until Stiles licks his lips and breathes hot against him, Derek twitching at the wet heat.

Stiles opens his mouth, and Derek pushes him down.

Outside, the ocean pulses.

.

**Author's Note:**

> "Oh Sayang" means "Oh Sweetheart/Darling" in Malay, and I listened to a lot of "Siboh Kitak Nangis" by Zee Avi while writing this.


End file.
